_ Griffith Griffiths takes a Trip and his Wife receives a Call_
While her generous husband was running about Liverpool to buy another
benefaction for Bryn Tirion, Mrs. Griffiths was receiving calls at Sygyn
Fawr.
"Good-day," said Olwyn Evans, stepping over the brass doorsill of Sygyn
Fawr.
"Good-day," replied Betty Griffiths.
"I hear Griffiths is gone to Liverpool?"
"Aye, he is."
"He went yesterday?"
"Aye."
"He comes back this evening?"
"Aye."
The clock ticked and the china cats smiled blandly in the silence.
"He's not come yet?"
"No, he has not."
Olwyn readjusted her shawl.
"Evan says he's not taken the trip for twenty years?"
"No, twenty years ago this September."
"Rhys Goch says he's gone for new machinery come from Ameriky; has he
so?"
At this point there was a chorus of yaps and shrieks from Colwyn Street,
on which Sygyn Fawr stood.
"It's Marged Owen's baby, Johnny. Dalben's terriers are always upsettin'
him when they're fightin'. At Cwm Dyli farm they say he's gone to sell
sheep; has he so?"
"It's neither sheep nor slate," replied Betty Griffiths acridly.
"Is it so?"
The street rang with another volley of yells.
"It's Cidwm Powell this time, fallin' off the slate copin'. He always
is; some day he'll fall in, an' I don't know what Maggie'll do then."
"No, nor I," added Olwyn Evans, "it's her only. Jane Wynne and Jane
Jones is ill. Their folks've been to the chemist's in Tremadoc for them,
but you'd think they'd have the doctor, now wouldn't you?"
"You would," assented Betty. "Jane Wynne's eighty; how old is Jane
Jones?"
"She's comin' seventy-five."
"She is?"
"The chemist says it's failin' with both," commented Olwyn. "They'll not
die very far apart. They'll be keepin' the minister busy what with
visitin' them and then buryin' them. It'll be hard on Robert."
"It will."
"You say Griffiths is not back?"
"No, not back."
"He'll be comin'?"
"Aye."
"Goodbye."
"Goodbye."